Vash's Quiet Life
by Eden Evergreen
Summary: (VQL # 1) A year and a half after the Trigun Maximum Manga ends, what does Vash do next? What if he found what he always said he wanted? (Includes minor spoilers for anyone who's not yet finished reading the manga.)
1. Rescue

**Author's Note:** This tale begins a year and a half after "Trigun Maximum" manga's final page in "Last Bullet." Primarily "manga-verse," for example: the events in the anime episode "Living Through" never happened. I tried to keep spoilers to a minimum, yet this tale does contain a few. You have been warned! :)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Trigun / Vash.

**Chapter 1: Rescue**

Both suns had set. The multicolored glory of their last rays was quickly fading from the sky. The moons rose, shedding a gentler light over our desert world: No Man's Land.

My daughter and I began our usual evening journey to our village's power plant. We took our usual route, bypassing busy streets, so that we might quietly enjoy each other's company... or at least, so I always tell her. She's still so young. Some burdens I'm reluctant to share with her. There's time. I can tell her those things as she grows older.

One of my daily jobs is to clean up around the power plant, after the work crews have gone home for the night. The task is more pleasant with my daughter's company. Since Shyla grew big enough to help, she is always happy to assist me.

We greeted the girl in the bubble, and told her of the little things that brightened our day. I did that even before the troubles two years ago, that proved plant beings are people much like ourselves. Greeting her had always seemed the only polite thing to do. We finished in two hours, as is usual since Shyla grew big enough to help me efficiently.

We began our homeward journey, enjoying the pleasant coolness of the night. I had a sudden impulse to extend our usual walk home, and enjoy the outdoors a little longer. "Shall we walk around the outer edges of town tonight, dear? We've not done that for some time, and this evening all is pleasantly mild."

"Oh yes, let's do that," she said enthusiastically, smiling at me.

I smiled in return. She always seems to like my ideas. I sometimes wonder if I influence her too much. I do not want to hold her back from attaining her full potential, whatever that may be. Perhaps, in time, she'll learn to think more for herself.

I caught myself admiring the soft light from the five moons shining in Shyla's blonde hair, instead of enjoying the landscape. There is little to see out there except the barren desert, or the night sky. While the night sky has its beauties and wonders, my daughter is a dearer joy and delight. I can never get enough of drinking in the sight of her.

Adopted daughter, I reminded myself, yet that fact does not change in the slightest all the love my heart holds for her. I know deep down in my soul that one day she will need to leave this small village, to see what else this world might hold for her. I dread that day.

Not wanting to stare at her, and thereby make her worry that I might be troubled, I looked out over the desert without really paying attention to what I was seeing. I blinked, thinking I had imagined seeing something unusual.

I looked again. No, it wasn't a speck of dust in my eye. Nor did it still seem to be mere imagination or a trick of the moonlight. My footsteps slowed, and I looked yet again.

My daughter paused beside me, searched my face, and then looked in the direction I was looking. "Something's out there," she said, confirming that she also saw what I did.

"Shall we go see what it is?" I asked.

"Of course!" she answered, linking her arm in mine.

Our small village is remote enough that, aside from the annual sand-steamer visit, very few venture this direction. We are many hundreds of iles from the nearest moderately-sized town, and at least two hundred iles from the nearest busy sand steamer route... If it was a lost traveler out there, that poor soul might be in dire need.

We went cautiously, for not all surprises upon the desert are safe to venture near. Briefly, I considered returning home to get my gun. But my first suspicion proved correct, and there was no immediate danger to either of us.

A tall, lean man had collapsed face-down in the sand. He might have seen the buildings, and feared it was either a deserted town or else a mirage, before his strength gave out.

I gently turned him over, and brushed back the dark shoulder-length hair that covered his face. Seeing that youthful face in the moonlight, I revised my opinion. He could scarcely be much older than his early twenties. He was overdue for a shave, and his cracked lips suggested that he may have run out of water. I checked his canteen; it was empty.

Thankfully, the lad was still breathing. "We should take him home while he recovers," I said. "He can rest undisturbed in that small room across the hall from ours."

Shyla quickly agreed. She lifted his bag and canteen, slung both straps over her shoulder, and then helped me lift him. Though my daughter is very young, she's tall for her age and has much more strength than I do at age 74. She put her hands under his arms and around his chest, while I held his knees. I found a hat nearby, and put that in his lap.

Together we carefully carried him to the café where we work, and then upstairs to the dwelling rooms. His hat fell off his lap as we climbed the stairs. In my apron pocket, I found the key for the small room we had chosen to place him in, and opened the door. We laid him on the bed as gently as we could.

"Shyla, dear," I said, "would you please bring a candle, and some clean cloths? He may be injured, and need bandaging." I didn't want the harsh brightness of the electric light, but the gentler glow of a candle. This was partly to avoid startling him into wakefulness prematurely, and partly to leave it burning through the night. I planned to check on him a few times, and I wanted some light available if he woke on his own.

She hurried off to gather all that I'd requested. I removed his tattered cape, his gloves and his footwear. This action uncovered brutal scars upon one of his hands and both feet. Those scars showed plainly in the moonlight that came through the window by the bed.

As I adjusted his body to a more natural resting position, I noticed that his left arm felt too hard. In fact, that arm felt as if it must be made of wood or metal instead of the firm flesh of an active or hard-working person that I could feel through his threadbare clothes everywhere else that I touched him.

I pulled the stool closer to the bed, so I may more easily reach him to take care of him.

Shyla returned with a candle on a holder. She lit it and set it on the bedside table near the wall. She had not forgotten my request for bandages, and placed those on the table closer to the bed and within easy reach of my hand.

"Thank you sweetie," I said gratefully. "Could you also get a bucket of water from the well? He likely needs clean water as much he needs rest, just now. We can turn the water on, and run it until it's clear, later." While those things are true, I also wanted her away while I undressed him to check for injuries. I didn't know what I might find, and the scars I had already uncovered were somewhat alarming.

Besides, if he didn't have anything on under his pants, better that an old lady like me be alone while tending him. No need to embarrass him further after waking, if he should learn that a young girl had also seen so much of his body.

"I'll go fill our biggest bucket," she answered readily, and was off to tend that errand.

I rummaged in his bag for a clean shirt and pants, and found what I sought just inside its mouth. I laid those garments over the bed's headboard. Then I pushed his bag away toward the clothes cupboard, thereby making space for a bucket of water to rest on the floor within easy reach when Shyla brought it. I began easing him out of his dirty sweat-soaked shirt, and was greatly relieved that I had sent Shyla away.

The poor lad's body is almost entirely covered with cruel scars, some suggesting very severe injuries in his past. None seem very recent, but there are so many! My guess about his left arm proved correct; it is a replacement, and not his natural limb.

I wondered if he might have sought our remote village to escape from whomever had hurt him so badly. I tried to move more quickly, without being any less gentle. I hoped to finish checking him over, and re-dressing him, before Shyla returned.

Long and lean, with proportionally broader shoulders and well-muscled, he reminded me poignantly of my late husband - many years ago, when he had been young. If I'd ever had a son or grandson, he might look very much like this youth lying so scarred and helpless in front of me. My heart began to ache for him, and reach out toward him, as a mother's heart reaches out toward her own son.

I found no fresh injuries in need of bandaging, though he had several bruises as if he'd stumbled and fallen multiple times before his collapse. There was no sign of blood on his undergarment, so I left that alone. I quickly dressed him, pants first and then a shirt, and laid him flat on the bed again to fasten his clothing into place. I'd just finished closing his shirt over his chest, to cover his worst scars, when Shyla returned with the water.

"Thank you very much," I said, and smiled at her; she smiled back. "Now would you please get me a glass, to help trickle some water into his mouth?"

"Certainly," she said, still smiling, and was quickly on her way to find the required item as I buttoned his shirt. I moved to the foot of the bed, and gently pulled at his ankles to straighten his body. Lying in a crooked position could be uncomfortable, and cause muscle aches that he didn't need. He likely had plenty of aches from his journey and his fall already, without me being careless and adding more.

His mouth was slightly open, so as soon as I sat on the stool again I dipped my fingers into the water and let a few drops fall into his mouth. He did not react. Though still breathing, his breaths were very shallow. I knew that meant he was in a bad way, and found myself praying that he would not die as I dipped my fingers into the water again.

His numerous scars told me that he has endured much already. I fervently wished him some time for peace and joy in his life.

Shyla returned with the glass. "Thank you again," I said, as she put it on the table.

I gently lifted him, supporting his head and shoulders with one arm while holding the glass of water in my other hand. I trickled a little water into his mouth, set the glass back on the table, and then massaged his throat until he swallowed. In this manner, bit by bit, I slowly and patiently got the whole glassful of water into him. I heard Shyla's steps leave and return as I worked.

I eased him flat again, and began washing his face with the clean cloths Shyla had brought me to use for bandages. The moonlight had not deceived me.

His long, narrow face was pleasantly youthful, though overdue for a shave. That face seemed painfully young and innocent, especially when attached to a body covered with such terrible scars... his chin-whiskers, which fail to create a full beard, also seemed to say he was too young for so much pain. Aside from a small freckle near the outer corner of his left eye, and a scraped place on his right cheek, his face was unblemished. A small silvery loop was attached to his left earlobe.

My attention was briefly distracted by a few paler hairs shining on top of the right side of his head, while the rest of his hair was as black as a moonless midnight. An unusual thing, but sometimes a hard knock on the head could cause hair to lose its color. If he woke, as I hoped he would, one day I might ask him about his hair.

After gently washing his face and hands, I refilled the glass of water. Again, I carefully lifted his head and shoulders and trickled the water little by little into his mouth. The last time, he swallowed it on his own - without my needing to rub his throat. I nearly dropped him from surprise and relief.

I gently lowered him onto the bed until he lay flat again, and pulled a sheet over his body up to his chest, and then arranged his arms on top of the sheet into positions that I hoped would be comfortable for him. I spread a thin blanket over him, from his toes to his waist. "Let's let him rest for now," I said.

I had been so busy tending the youth that I'd not looked closely at Shyla for several minutes. I turned and saw her young face contorted in anxiety, with tears streaming down her cheeks. She was holding his hat with both of her hands.

"What is it, dearest?" I asked, reaching for her. She was a tender-hearted child, but not usually to the point of tears. "I think he shall recover, since he swallowed for himself that last time." I gently disengaged his hat from her grip, and hung it on a hook.

"I hope you're right about him recovering," Shyla said, "But he's in so much pain."

I felt my brows draw together in mingled concern and concentration. Shyla tended to be unusually perceptive. "Is he injured?" I asked. "I looked, but I could not find anything that needed bandaging."

"Not that kind of pain," she said softly.

"Perhaps he lost friends or family during all that trouble two years ago," I suggested. "He may still be grieving."

"Perhaps," she said. "Yes, it is something like that kind of pain. But his is somehow... more... than most people have."

"Hopefully, he will wake in a day or two," I said. "Then we can learn if we may help that to heal, also."

"Oh, thank you, mother!" she said, and briefly wept on my shoulder as I held her. I didn't see his dirty clothes, so Shyla must have taken them when she retrieved his hat. We left his room, closed the door, and crossed the hall to our own rooms.

"He's different," Shyla said softly, thoughtfully, as we closed our own door behind us.

"Different?" I asked, concerned. Different could be good or bad. "Can you tell me how?"

"I don't know," she said uncertainly. "He just feels different from anybody else I've ever met. I can feel his emotions much more strongly than I do for most people."

"Does he feel angry, like he might want to hurt someone?" I asked cautiously.

"No," she said immediately. There was a ring of confidence in her voice, and no trace of doubt. "He feels gentle, and sad, and in pain. But not angry."

"Well, he may stay here and we shall try to help him heal all we can," I said, "as long as he behaves himself."

We read only one chapter of the book we had been reading aloud together, since tending the youth had taken up most of the evening.

I unbraided and brushed out Shyla's hair, as usual. We hugged each other goodnight, and then parted to our separate bedrooms. As I prepared for sleep, my thoughts again turned to our unexpected guest.

I hoped that his face, and Shyla's perceptions, held truth. I hoped that he had not grown twisted inside from the injuries that left so many scars on his outside. Such tragedies had been known to happen. I did not wish that tragedy for the youth across the hall.

I crossed the hall again, and trickled another glass of water into him before I slept.


	2. Rescued One

**Chapter 2: Rescued One**

Predawn light began to spread across the desert and into his window. His eyelids fluttered and opened just a little at first, and then a bit wider. He looked at the unknown room surrounding him, seen clearly courtesy of the flickering light provided by a candle.

The room was small and plain, but clean. It had a window in the wall beside his bed.

Looking clockwise, he saw a desk-sized table beside the head of his bed. The candle, some clean-smelling cloths, and a drinking glass all sat on that table. A bucket of water was on the floor beside the table, almost against his bed. A tall cupboard stood near the foot of his bed. His bag was sitting on the floor by that cupboard.

Just beyond the cupboard was an open door. He could see through that doorway into a tiny room with a sink and a toilet. Beside that door were some hooks on the wall, where his hat was hanging. Another door was in the wall between the hooks and the bed table. That door was closed. Aside from a stool beside his bed, that was all he could see.

At first, the unfamiliar surroundings left him confused. When he tried to move, and felt weakness, soreness and bruises in his body, his memory of recent events began to return.

His mind wandered back farther, to a year and a half ago, when he'd run from Mesa Probe Church after being sheltered there for 6 months. He'd promised to disappear, and he'd done his best. His red coat was folded at the very bottom of his bag, with his body armor and silver revolver just above it. He filled his bag with ordinary traveling supplies. He'd bought a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses, in common styles worn by many.

He left word for his friends from the space ship that he was going to vanish, possibly for several years, without contact. His message had also asked that they not seek him.

Then he'd moved around from one place to another. He did enough of that to be sure that nobody who might recognize him was on his trail... friend or foe.

That precaution also gave his hair time to grow longer. He used temporary dyes to color his hair differently, as he moved from place to place. Disguised thus, he had revisited the apple tree that grew near Mesa Probe Church to get seeds from its fruit. He wanted to plant another apple tree wherever he finally lived. As far as he knew, none had seen him. Though it made his heart ache, he did not visit Carlito or his father.

By that time, he had already studied several newer maps of No Man's Land to see where survivors had begun to gather and rebuild. He selected a small remote village well north of most steamer routes. Its population included about 700 adults and around 150 children.

His plan had been to visit the village rarely, while he lived out in the wilderness nearby. It would be a lonely life, but at least that way nobody else would be endangered by any overly zealous bounty hunters. He had done his best to prepare his heart for such a solitary existence, but he did not enjoy the prospect.

After more months of moving about, never spending more than a few weeks in a single place, he'd bought a ticket on a sand steamer going in a different direction from the location of his chosen village.

Two days into the trip, he had washed the dye out of his hair. This had been immediately followed by a jump off that sand steamer, early in a night shift, so that none would know when he'd gone. There had been many long lonely iles of walking across the desert with only the suns, moons and stars to guide him.

He remembered feeling the heat on his face, the grit of sand in the winds, and the slow process of his body's strength wearing down. His head grew too heavy to hold upright, and then, finally, the ground had abruptly rolled up and hit him in the face.

He'd been far too weary to get up just then. It was growing dark, so he'd hoped to rest during the cooler night hours... and try to move again in the morning. Since he'd been looking down at the sands while he walked, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, he had not seen if he was anywhere near to the village he sought. Since someone had found him and brought him to this room, he must have been close.

He'd passed out while scolding himself for miscalculating how much food and water he would need to get through the desert. He should have had enough supplies, but severe sandstorms had forced him to stop and wait more than he'd expected. Knives' activities must have altered some of the weather patterns.

He was weary of walking, and weary of loneliness. He wasn't sure if he had the strength to isolate himself so thoroughly again.

The soft voices of an old woman and a girl... had those been a dream? Were they the ones who found him and brought him here?

If so, there was something... something about that girl... it tugged at his senses. He was too weary to grasp what it was. As he tried to wake his mind enough to understand, he heard a step outside the door.

Hearing the door to his room begin to open, he closed his weary eyes again. He thought from the sound of the footsteps that it was the older woman. He heard the rustle of her skirts, and the stool at his bedside creaked softly as she sat on it. He heard the sound of something dipping into the water bucket.

He felt her easing her arm under his neck and shoulders, to lift him up just enough to trickle water into his mouth. He stayed limp, mutely accepting her gentle ministrations. At least his body had absorbed enough moisture that he no longer needed a throat massage to help him swallow the water.

"Ah, good," she sighed, as she eased him back down onto the bed. "That went in easier than last night's." Her voice was very soft, nearly a whisper. He heard her move as she set the glass down, but she did not yet get up from the stool.

He barely avoided flinching from surprise when he felt her fingers gently stroking his hair. She still spoke almost in a whisper, as if thinking aloud. "I can scarcely imagine what you must have been through, that could possibly have caused such terrible scars. We'll do our best to take care of you now, and help you heal - both body and soul."

"I wonder," she continued after a brief pause, still gently smoothing his hair with her fingertips, "which tells the truer tale. Are you a gentle soul, as something in your face suggests, or are you hard as your scars suggest? It could be so good for my sweet Shyla to have a brother, if you are kind-hearted and wished to stay with us."

"I suppose time will tell," she concluded. "Please, get better. Don't die. That would break Shyla's heart, and possibly mine also."

Her voice, her words, and the way she touched him; all of those things left no doubt in his mind. This was indeed the elder of the two ladies, whose voices he had heard in the night when he was barely half awake and thought he might be dreaming.

This older lady reminded him of Lina's grandmother. The thought of that pair, also an older woman and younger girl, made his heart ache. It hurt that he could not return to them, for fear of bringing danger to them. He was a wanted and a hunted man.

It was far safer, for everyone, if he was in a place where nobody had ever known him - and where nobody who had ever known him was likely to come, he reminded himself. He hoped no danger would come to anyone in this remote village because of him. Sand steamers only came here once a year, so he should be able to avoid them without much difficulty. That alone should evade most opportunities for trouble.

"Nearly time to begin breakfast," she said, still in that very soft voice that suggested her thoughts might be spilling out of her lips of their own accord. "A little time left, though. I'll try to rest a bit, before the day truly begins." Her fingers withdrew from his hair.

He heard the stool creak, her skirt rustle, her steps move to the door, the candle blown out, the door opened and closed, and then her steps moved away from the other side of the door. She was gone, for now. He knew that, in time, she would be back.

He lay still, and slowly opened his eyes for the second time.

From her words, this old lady was willing to accept him as a member of her family... if he proved himself. He'd always wanted to live quietly. Especially since staying with Lina and her grandmother, he'd also wanted to belong to a family. Suddenly, here was an old lady he'd not even met yet, and she was offering him a home. He wanted to cry at the thought of such kindness extended to him, but he was too dehydrated for tears.

Would she cast him out, if she learned who he was? It would be safer for everyone if he didn't tell her, though. She couldn't forget to guard a secret that she didn't know.

He would need a new name for himself. He could not use Eriks again, since someone might recognize it. He shouldn't use any of the names he had gone through during the last year and a half, to avoid creating a trail that could lead here. He must think of something new and inconsequential, something that would blend in...

He fell asleep, still pondering the choice of a new name.

When he felt aware of himself again, it was from hearing the door to his room opening. The old lady had returned, to pour more water into him. He felt weak and dizzy from hunger, now that he was less parched.

As she lifted him, he opened his eyes and looked at her. Her oval face was framed by silvery grey hair with a very few brown strands mingled in. Most of her hair was pulled back into a bun, though several errant wisps fell around her face. She wore a simple grayish dress, with an apron over it. Her dark eyes were gentle.

She blinked when she saw his eyes open, but continued bringing the glass of water to his mouth without pause. "Good morning," she said, more in the manner that she had spoken the night before when the girl was with her than when she may have been thinking aloud. "It's good to see you awake. We were worried that we might not get to meet you." She smiled at him, a warm and welcoming smile.

His mouth and throat felt dry, so he drank a few gulps before attempting to speak. "Thank you," he said weakly, and smiled in return. It made his face hurt a little, since he had scraped one cheek nearly raw when he fell into the sand.

"Oh, I'd expect that anyone else in their right mind would have done exactly the same, if they had found you instead," she said negligently.

"No," he said softly. "Some would, but not all."

Her gentle eyes looked sad, but she did not contradict him. "Well, perhaps not in other places," she conceded. "I hope that everyone here is too civilized to do otherwise."

He wanted to say something else, to thank her again so that she'd know that he really meant it. But then he caught a familiar aroma that drove all other thoughts from his mind. Was he delirious? It had to be impossible, didn't it? Because he thought he smelled...

"Doughnuts?"

"Yes," she said. "We work in the café downstairs, and my Shyla is busy frying this morning's doughnuts for the customers." She tipped the glass up to his mouth again, and he drank more water gratefully. "I don't suppose you'd be up to eating any? My girl is a good cook, if I do say so myself. She makes very fine doughnuts."

"Please," he said, as soon as she stopped pouring water into his mouth. He wanted to get up and go down, to get some doughnuts for himself. Unfortunately, right that minute, he couldn't even sit up without help.

"I'll bring you a few," she promised as she eased him back onto the bed. "Not too many at first, since we don't want to dry you out again. By the way, my name's Naomi."

She extended her right hand, and he managed to lift his own right hand just enough for her to grab it and shake hands. "Pleased to meet you," she said, smiling again. She was thoughtful enough to lower his hand so it wouldn't fall far when she let go.

As he smiled at her again, he felt himself sinking back into unconsciousness. His eyelids began to drop over his eyes, ignoring all of his efforts to keep them open.

"That's right," she said gently. "You rest, and the doughnuts will soon be here on your table and waiting for when ever you are ready for them."

"Thank you," he whispered as he felt himself sink into sleep again.


	3. Rescuers

**Chapter 3: Rescuers**

I closed his door softly, though the poor lad's unlikely to be waked by so small a sound.

His clear, haunted eyes reminded me of a child's. Hurt, trust, and bewilderment seemed to be written there in almost equal measure. I saw no anger, hatred, bitterness or fear in his face, voice or eyes. This was a vast relief.

I was also encouraged that he'd smiled at me, if only briefly. I noticed that his face had twitched in a way that suggested the efforts to smile had made his scraped cheek sting. Even with all that, his brief smiles had looked genuine. It also encouraged me to hear him say both "please" and "thank you."

These things supported Shyla's instincts, and fit with his face better than with his scars.

Though it may be that he only seems gentle because he's currently so weak, I reminded myself sternly. We must wait to see how he is when he recovers.

I was cautiously hopeful, though trying to avoid growing too fond. I'd longed for children, decades ago when I was young enough to think of beginning a family. But my husband could only find work on sand steamers, so I rarely saw him. Then he was killed by bandits, and I saw him no more.

Lately I've been blessed with a daughter. I'd thought my life was complete, when Shyla became part of it. Now, much to my own surprise, I also want a son. Something about this lad reminds me so much of my dear husband that I could easily come to think of him as my own son. I want him to stay, even without really knowing him.

I must not allow myself to hope too much, not yet. Perhaps I'm growing foolish in my old age. I'm nearly 75, and I should know better than to let myself take to a stranger so quickly. I should be especially careful, because I have a young daughter to protect.

I went down the stairs and into the café's kitchen. I hugged Shyla from behind, and wished her good morning.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully, briefly snuggling into my embrace. I stretched myself a little to kiss her cheek, since she'd grown taller than I. She turned her face, tipping her head a little to kiss my forehead.

I let go, and stepped away from her. She dipped freshly-cooked doughnuts out of the oil, and then she began to set the next few in. "Our surprise guest liked the smell of your doughnuts," I told her.

"Really?" she asked, but I could hear the smile in her voice. I knew it made her feel good when people liked her cooking.

"Yes, and he would like some," I said. "Do we have enough to give him a few, and still have plenty for our customers too? I can help you make up another batch, if not."

"I think so," she said. "Or you could make the muffins, while I make more doughnuts."

Then she said, "You made him feel happy this morning, if only for a little while."

I blinked, and chose my words carefully. "You said yesternight that you could feel his emotions more keenly than those of others," I remembered. "Is that how you know this?"

"Yes," she said, and then added, "I think he likes you."

"I'm inclined to like him, too," I said, "even though I don't really know him yet."

Shyla looked away from her doughnuts long enough to smile at me. "I like him, too," she said. "Even though he's hurting so much, all he really wants is someone to love."

"Not 'love' in that sticky, selfish, mushy way that the Thomas coop owner says he 'loves' you," she said, before I could speak. Plainly, like me, she was not impressed by that man. "With our guest, it's like brothers and sisters, or how good friends become like family."

"He's lonely, you mean?" I said, relieved.

"Yes, that's part of it." She nodded in agreement. "It might go deeper than that, though. I can easily sense echoes of what he feels, but I'm still learning him." She smiled over her shoulder at me again. "He's nice, you'll see."

Suddenly she reached for a plate, and put several of her freshly-cooked doughnuts onto it. "He's near to waking again," she told me, offering the plate, "and he's hungry."

I chuckled. "All right, I'll take him your doughnuts right away." I hoped she wasn't being fooled. I love her dearly, but she is so very young... and very trusting. I didn't want her to get hurt, from trusting the wrong person.

Shyla hugged me again before I left the kitchen, and smiled as she turned back to her doughnut frying. "I can take care of breakfast today," she called over her shoulder. "You take care of him."

I paused in the doorway, and she flashed me another quick smile with a wink. "I've done breakfast before, you know," she reminded me playfully.

I put up a hand in surrender. "Yes, you have," I said, smiling at her and backing away.

I could hear her peals of delighted laughter as I moved through the café and up the stairs.

When I reached his door, I tapped on it gently. "It's Naomi, are you awake?"

"Come in," he said.

So, Shyla had been correct about his waking.

I heard a rustle as I entered his room, and found him struggling to sit up. I quickly put the plate of doughnuts on the table, and caught him. "Hey now," I said, "Don't go overdoing and making yourself sicker."

He looked up at me with his childlike, wounded but trusting eyes. There was enough daylight now to see their color: a clear, pale blue that leaned toward green. "Your eyes are such a lovely color!" I said, unintentionally speaking my surprised thoughts.

He blushed deeply.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" I said. I hadn't meant to embarrass him. However, his spontaneous blush was reassuring. Hardened souls seldom blush.

That blush was also endearing.

"Here, let's get you sitting up enough to eat," I said, and smiled at him.

He nodded, smiling back, with the blush not yet faded from his cheeks.

The youth was very docile as I assisted him in adjusting his position until he sat with his back leaning heavily against the headboard of the bed, cushioned by a pillow. His head leaned back weakly against the wall behind the bed's headboard. He seemed somewhat surprised that I had moved his pillow to cushion his back.

"Isn't it more comfortable with the pillow there?" I asked as I sat on the stool. I filled the glass, and set it within easy reach for him. Then I picked up the plate of doughnuts.

"Yes," he said, "but I've had to do without so often that I'd not have thought of it."

I set the plate of doughnuts in his lap. He was still weak, breathing heavily. He had a few beads of sweat on his face, from the effort of sitting up. I picked up a cloth, dipped it in the bucket, and gently wiped his face clean.

"I washed your face and hands when we brought you in here," I said as I put the cloth aside, "though you might feel more comfortable with a more thorough washing." I knew I was pressuring him, but I needed to learn more about him quickly. Shyla liked him, and I, too, was growing fond of him with uncommon speed.

With a visible effort, he pulled his head away from the wall and lowered his face toward the doughnuts. His black shoulder-length hair fell forward, curtaining his face. "Washing can wait until I'm able to do it myself," he said softly. "I don't want to be any trouble."

"Nonsense," I said briskly. "You need help, and I'd be a poor hostess if I failed to offer what you need." I paused, and then added more softly, "I've already put you in a clean shirt and pants, when my girl was out of the room. I'd like to make sure that none of those scars is in any danger of reopening."

"They're old," he said quietly, without lifting his head. "If any were going to reopen, that would have happened before now."

I gently swept back the nearest curtain of his hair, and tucked it behind his ear. I should have asked before doing anything so intimate. I kept instinctively acting as if he were my own son. He didn't flinch from my touch, nor did he protest. His sorrowful expression would tug at harder hearts than mine. "Are you strong enough to eat?" I asked gently.

He raised his head enough to look at me, and a smile brightened his face. There was still some sadness in his eyes, but his gentle smile seemed genuine. "Yes, thank you. I'll just need a few minutes... though I might need your help to lie down again afterward."

"Let me see you take one bite, at least," I said. "The cook will want to know if you approve of her efforts."

He raised a doughnut to his mouth, and took al bite. His arm shook just a little in the process, but that didn't stop him. His face brightened further. "This is great!" he said as soon as he'd swallowed, looking and sounding genuinely pleased. "Thank you, both."

I felt a wide smile spreading over my face. Again, I caught myself feeling very fond of him, and hoping that he'd choose to stay with us. "I will tell her so," I said.

I stood up and gently squeezed his shoulder. He smiled up at me again, around another mouthful of doughnut. Then I walked out of his room. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying munching on my Shyla's doughnuts. For that moment, it was as if he had no other care in the world.

When I returned to the kitchen, I had no need to relay his message. "He likes my doughnuts," Shyla told me, sounding delighted. "Thank you for taking them up to him."

I hugged her tightly for a moment, felt her respond, and then told her, "He asked to be let alone while he ate. I'll check on him again after a little while."

I rolled up my sleeves, adjusted my apron, and set to work on my share of the breakfast cooking for the café. It was something useful to do, while I was waiting for enough time to pass before checking on our guest again.


	4. Convalescence

**Chapter 4: Convalescence**

'Twas only the evening of the second day after we'd carried him in from the desert, when he managed to get out of his room by himself.

He came downstairs for dinner. I saw him clinging to the handrail as he slowly worked his way down the stairs, and moved close enough to catch him if he fell. However, he got down without my help. I felt very proud of him.

On the third day, he sat on a chair in the kitchen nearly all day and kept us company. That evening, he asked to come with us when we cleaned up around the power plant.

Should he walk so far, so soon? When I voiced my worry, he smiled bashfully and said he'd be all right. So he sat while we greeted the girl in the bubble. He offered keep her company while we cleaned areas farther away from her.

Many people are uncomfortable around the plant beings. He might only have offered to stay with her out of politeness. So I checked on him only a short while later.

To my surprise, I found him with his hands on the bubble's glass. The girl inside had reached out to him, placing her hands against his from her own side of the glass. She was smiling. I'd only seen her react like that once before, with Shyla. I quietly left the room.

His comfort with the lady in the bubble might be very good, if he ever learns... but that can wait. It's too soon. I shouldn't borrow trouble. Maybe the subject will never come up.

On the fourth day, he came down to help with breakfast. Neither of us would allow him to help yet, so he sat in the kitchen and kept us company again. Shyla fed him doughnuts, which he ate most enthusiastically. After that, I shooed him out of the café. He wanted to help wash dishes, which I feared would exceed his strength.

He went out to play with the children. I followed, and persuaded him to limit himself to sitting on a bench and tossing a ball with them. He agreed, if somewhat reluctantly. He and the children enjoyed playing together. It was the first time I'd heard him laugh.

I took lunch to the sheriff's office, as usual. Father missed me when I married, so it became a habit to carry lunch to that office every day. After my father retired, and later passed on, I continued taking lunch to the sheriff and deputies of our village.

When I returned, he looked alarmed. I asked if he was tired. "No," he said, and tossed the ball away without getting off the bench. I squeezed his shoulder and then let him be.

That evening, he sat in the kitchen during dinner. Again, he wanted to help wash dishes. I persuaded him to sit on a stool while he dried. His help was welcome, though I wish I were more confident that the youth wasn't overtaxing himself so soon after his collapse.

He came to the power plant after dinner again. This time, after we greeted the lady in the bubble, he insisted on helping at least a little. His willingness to help with our mundane chores - and that cheerfully, without complaint - this also endears him to me

After we finished at the plant and walked home, I invited him to join us in our rooms for the evening. I wanted to see if he would enjoy our company, and to see how tired he was.

"This is a night when Shyla and I usually read out loud to each other," I told him. "If you'll sit here" I gestured to the seat where Shyla and I usually shared a book "then it should be easy to include you." He sat down where I indicated readily enough.

I pulled a book off the shelf. When he was settled, I sat to his right and placed the open book in his lap. I linked my arm in his, resting my cheek against his shoulder, for that is a good position to see the book. I rested my hand on the page, ready to begin.

Shyla sat beside him to his left. She began to link her arm in his, but then she stopped with a gasp. She gently squeezed at his artificial arm through his sleeve, looking puzzled.

"Oh, that arm's a replacement," he said, and smiled with a slight blush. "Everything else is original."

He was quite tense, poor dear. He seemed so embarrassed.

"I was only surprised because I didn't know," Shyla said. "Tomorrow I'll sit on your other side." She smiled, linked her arm in his, and leaned her cheek against his shoulder.

From the way he tensed up, I'd guess he's had little experience with such gentle displays of affection. I hope, in time, he will learn to accept such innocent contact comfortably. If not, I hope he will plainly ask us to avoid anything that makes him feel too awkward.

I read first, followed by Shyla. Finally, he read to us. He gradually relaxed as we read.

None of us were eager for the evening to end, but we had to turn in. We needed to rest before opening the café on time the next morning. He gently disengaged himself from our linked arms, stood up, wished us goodnight, and went to his own room.

The fifth morning, I went early to check on him. He might have driven himself too hard, and grown weak again. However, I found his door open and his room empty. I checked the café and its kitchen, but still I did not find him.

I thought he had gone away. This made me very sad. I went out onto the back porch... and saw him kneeling at the corner of my land closest to the village well. He was stabbing at the ground with a pointed piece of metal, and had a bucket of water by him.

I quickly dried my eyes, feeling a bit foolish for crying when he'd not gone away. I walked over to him. "What are you doing?" I asked.

"I wanted to give you a gift," he said, continuing to work on the ground with his tool. He didn't look up. "I wanted to thank you for all your kindness to me."

"That's not needful," I said gently. "Please, don't overdo and make yourself ill again." He briefly smiled up at me, and then returned his attention to his work. My curiosity got the better of me, so I asked, "What is it?"

"Seeds," he said. "If they grow, you will have an apple tree."

"The apples we buy from the caravan don't usually have seeds that will grow," I said.

"I brought these with me," he said.

I stayed with him in silence while he finished softening the ground, planting the seeds, and watering the place where the seeds were planted. All this he did on his knees.

"Will you be staying with us, until the tree grows?" I asked. Was this a parting gift?

He looked up at me, with his wounded-child eyes. I could see his face and eyes, because he had to look up just far enough that his abundant black hair fell away from his face.

"You don't know me yet," he said quietly. "I'm older than I look. What if I'm a terrible person? You might not want me around."

I gently reached out to hold his upturned face in my hands. "You are gentle with Shyla and the children," I said. "You say 'please' and 'thank you' like you mean it. You help us with our work. You are polite to the plant lady. You express concern for us, and for our safety. From these things, I can see that your heart is good and kind."

"No matter what your past mistakes might be," I continued, "everyone deserves a second chance, if they are willing to improve. Try to forgive yourself; you'll find that it helps."

"Thank you," he said, with tears in his eyes. "I will try."

"You are welcome to stay with us," I said, "as long as you want or need."

He nodded, and then gently pulled my hands away from his face. He stood up, and looked out toward the horizon where the suns were rising. "It looks like time to start breakfast," he said.

"Yes," I said, and linked my arm with his as we walked to the kitchen. "You haven't told me your name yet," I realized, thinking aloud. "May I know it?"

"If I died out there in the desert," he said, "I'd have no need of a name."

"But thankfully you are alive, and not dead," I said, smiling, as we entered the kitchen.

"Yes, I'm alive," he said.

"I need to call you something," I said playfully.

"Call me whatever you like," he said softly. "I will learn to answer to it."

"Don't you wish us to use your real name?" I could see Shyla's back as she stood frying doughnuts. Just then, he was standing with his back toward her. She shook her head.

"What ever you choose to call me can become my real name," he said.

I had not expected this. Shyla's head shake discouraged me from pressing him further. "'Nate' means 'gift,' and you are a blessing to us," I said slowly. "Would that suit you?"

"Thank you," he said. "If you wish it, then I shall be called Nate."

After that, the fifth day mostly followed the pattern of the fourth. He did more work to help us than the day before, though. He can be a determined rascal!

After lunch, he asked about work available locally. I told him there was no need for that yet, but he insisted. "I've been staying in your room and eating your food," he said. "It's only right that I pay for it. Money for food doesn't grow out of thin air."

Well, I couldn't argue with that, even though I wanted to. He has a healthy appetite, though he eats less than I had feared he might. He might be more nearly grown than I'd first guessed, since a growing boy's appetite is endless.

I told him where people put up notices, to hire others to do work for them.

He came back in plenty of time to wash up for dinner, smelling like a Thomas coop (before washing up). I made him sit that evening, fearful of a relapse if he was too active.

The Thomas handler was growing old enough that he'd likely appreciate help. Goodness knows that man could afford it! However, that man was also trying to woo me... he came by the café at least twice each afternoon. I'd never wanted that type of attention from him. I'd told him so, repeatedly, but he wouldn't listen.

My unwelcome suitor came to dinner that night. He boasted loudly of hiring my house guest as a favor to me. He complained that the youth was entirely without skill around the Thomases, but he also said that the boy could clean a stall well enough... when he wasn't tripping over his own two feet or knocking things over.

Such clumsiness might mean that Nate had pushed himself too hard, I worried.

We spent another evening reading. This time, he knew what to expect and was less tense when we sat by him. When it grew late, he bid us goodnight as he had the prior evening.

I was very concerned that he might have overworked himself. After I had brushed Shyla's hair, and she had gone to bed, my worries for him troubled me too much for sleep. I wrapped a shawl over my nightgown, and went to check on him.

His door was unlatched. A night breeze may have nudged it ajar, since his window was open. I had no shoes on, and somehow missed the creaky boards, so I made no sound.

He stood looking out of his window, as if lost in thought. Then he lowered his head until his chin nearly touched his chest. His abundant shoulder-length hair completely screened his face. He pressed his palms together.

Then I heard him whisper, very softly. Somehow, although spoken so very softly, his words came to me very clearly. "God," he whispered, "thank You for bringing me here, to them. Please, let me stay a long time. Please, keep them safe."

I quietly backed away. I felt awkward for accidentally intruding on his private heartfelt prayer. I had prayed similar prayers ever since his arrival.

Learning that he felt much the same way as I did was comforting. I would do my very best to help God provide a favorable answer to that prayer.


	5. A Quiet Life

**Chapter 5: A Quiet Life**

Half a year has passed, since that evening when Shyla and I found him out on the desert.

I know the truth of this in my head. My heart, however, feels as if Nate has always been a part of my family. He has fitted himself into the simple routines of our lives so gently, so naturally, and so thoroughly.

Each day is much like the last, and much like the next.

I can hear Nate grunting and moving about in his room, before he washes up and comes out to help with breakfast. On mornings when his window is open, sometimes his door is slightly open, too.

Through that narrow opening, I have seen him doing handstand pushups on one arm, or any of several other strength and flexibility exercises. Sometimes he blindfolds himself. Other times, I have seen a flash of silver when he does his exercises. It reminds me of exercises that my father did before he went to work, back when I was a child.

Nate joins us to help cook breakfast, and to clean up after. He is a fine cook! When asked, he said that he'd worked in a café before. So this was nothing new to him.

He won't make doughnuts, though he cooks nearly everything else. He always asks Shyla to make them, and then he eats several with great enthusiasm and obvious enjoyment.

Thanks to his capable and efficient assistance, we all have a few hours to enjoy between breakfast and lunch work at the café. He and Shyla spend that time playing with our village's children. It is good to hear them all laughing as they play.

I often watch them, though sometimes I will go shopping instead. Shopping is especially likely if I want to surprise one or both of them later in the day. That is also when I tend to check on his apple tree sapling, growing at the corner of our yard.

After lunch at the café, and the necessary clean-up, he goes to work at the coop. I don't know how he does it, but he keeps his employer occupied all afternoon - and he gets paid for it, too! I no longer have to put up with that man's impertinence during any afternoon. The Thomas handler still sometimes eats at the café, and gets loud about how clumsy and foolish his employee is. Since there are always other customers to attend, I can more easily avoid him then.

I have noticed that Nate gets very clumsy and silly around other people, even the children. Is he so painfully shy that he loses his coordination? Is he so nervous, because of bashfulness, that he grows giddy? I ask myself those questions, often.

When it's just the three of us, if Shyla or I drop something, he nearly always catches it before it hits the ground. It doesn't matter if he's beside us, or if he's halfway across the room. He will catch whatever was dropped, and give it back with a smile. When only myself and Shyla are near, he never stumbles, or acts excessively silly... except, occasionally, to entertain us in the evening.

It concerns me, as time passes and he shows no signs of relaxing outside our family circle. I hope that, one day, he may relax more around the townsfolk also. When helping in the café, he rarely leaves the kitchen if there are any customers.

He gives me 85% of his wages from his coop work. I learned that 10% always appears at the local church, in an envelope marked "orphans." He only keeps 5% for himself.

He helps with dinner and its cleanup, also. He always accompanies us to the power plant, pays his respects to the lady in the bubble, and helps with cleaning up around there, too.

I've also seen him tinkering with some of the technology, when he thought we weren't looking. There had been a flashing yellow light for a very long time. I saw him at the controls, and the light stopped flashing yellow. It began to glow a steady green.

"I didn't know you were so talented," I told him.

"It's not talent, just a skill," he said, shrugging self-consciously. "Anyone can learn this. It just takes practice, that's all."

Others would not be so humble. That is one of many reasons that he grows dearer to me every day, just like my sweet Shyla does.

The plant foreman has mentioned that things seem to be working more smoothly in recent months. I suspect that is entirely his doing, since nothing else has changed. I asked Nate to teach Shyla, and he has agreed.

Even with the time spent on lessons, we finish at the power plant in an hour and a half.

Evening time after cleaning the plant is the primary variation in our daily routine.

Sometimes we three take a long walk around the outer edge of the village, as Shyla and I had begun to do on the night when we found him.

Sometimes we read together, as we did that first evening he spent in our rooms, though Shyla and I race to see who sits by his right side. When we read, we still lay a book open in Nate's lap as we did that first time. Shyla and I sit on either side of him, resting our cheeks against his shoulders. We all take turns reading aloud, and I turn the pages.

Sometimes, especially when we're all tired, we may sit together like we do when we read, and simply watch the stars and moons outside the window.

He no longer stiffens when Shyla or I pat or squeeze his shoulders, or his natural arm. He still sometimes startles when one of us hugs him, but he's adjusting. Sometimes he will spontaneously pat or squeeze one of our shoulders. Twice, he initiated a hug instead of waiting for us to hug him. I am pleased by these small changes. I hope this means he is healing, as he accepts our expressions of affection more easily.

Some evenings we sing, or trade jokes, or tell stories we've heard instead of reading.

Once or twice a week, he goes to the saloon after we walk home from the plant, instead of spending the later part of the evening with us. I would prefer that he didn't do that, for the saloon attracts the few in this town who are hard and mean. I told him my concern, but he just smiled and said it's ok. He thinks he can learn things there that cannot be learned as easily elsewhere. I suppose he's old enough to decide those things for himself.

On the one day each week when the café is closed, he usually goes alone out into the desert. I don't know what he does, or where he goes. Neither Shyla nor I have ever succeeded when we tried to follow him. He always takes his bag with him on those days, and he always returns in time to help clean up at the power plant.


	6. Family

**Chapter 6: Family**

It's been nearly a year since Shyla and I found Nate, half dead in the desert night.

Last month, a few days before the sand steamer was expected in town for its annual visit, he suggested that the three of us could spend that week camping out in the desert. His eyes slid from mine toward where Shyla was frying doughnuts. He looked worried.

"We haven't had a vacation together yet," he said, "and it would allow us to avoid all the noise and confusion of having strangers roaming around in the town."

"Some people like noise and confusion," I said, teasing him. The idea appealed, though.

"I like best to live quietly," he said. "I... will probably go, but I'd like it better if you two wanted to come with me." Again, his worried eyes slid toward Shyla. "Please?"

Even if I had been opposed, I would have had difficulty refusing that request. I don't know what had him so worried. However, if it could be avoided that easily, then I was willing to go. "That does sound nice," I said. "Shyla, what do you think?"

"I'd be happy to go," she said quietly. She had to sense that he was worried, though she might not detect that he was specifically worried about her.

So we went away for a week. He took us 5 iles out into the desert, in a direct line behind the power plant from the sand steamer dock. Thanks to a hollow place, that was far enough that we could only just see the highest point of the power plant over the dunes.

I hadn't been sure what to expect, but he made it a very pleasant trip. He can be highly entertaining, when so inclined. When he suggested that we do the same thing every year, during the week that the sand steamer comes to town, Shyla and I readily agreed.

Last night, Shyla was talking about something she heard on the radio earlier in the day.

The radio announcer had talked about rumors that the legendary gunman "Vash the Stampede" had come out of hiding. It was said that the "humanoid typhoon" had robbed a sand steamer that day, and that he had left behind a long trail of dead bodies.

My daughter and I were sitting on different ends of the reading seat, and Nate was sitting in front of us on a stool.

It was the first time I'd sensed any tension in him, within our family circle, for many months. He bent forward and rested his elbows on his knees, with his capable hands hanging limply in front of him. He bowed his face so low that his chin nearly touched his chest. His voice sounded sadder than I had ever heard him sound before.

"When the village boys want to pretend they're tough, sometimes they claim to be 'Vash the Stampede' too," he said through the curtain of his hair. "That doesn't make it true."

He sighed. "It wouldn't be the first time that some one had borrowed that name, to hurt or frighten people," he continued softly, and very sadly. "I'd heard that Vash is probably dead. Why can't they leave him alone?"

"Do you know him?" I asked, reaching out and taking his hand. I wanted to comfort him. I thought he spoke of a friend or acquaintance, or perhaps someone he had admired.

He looked up at me with a wounded-child expression that pierced my heart. "Yes," he said. "I guess you could say that I know him." He looked down again. "He... never wanted to hurt anyone." His artificial hand, the one I wasn't holding, clenched into a fist. "No one has the right to take a life!"

"The right? Perhaps not," I said. "But sometimes ... sometimes, there is a need." I hadn't meant to repeat my father's words, but they spilled out of my mouth anyway.

He looked up at me with a strange blend of anguish and desperation on his face. Perhaps he needed to hear more that my father had said. So I continued.

"My father was a Sheriff," I said. "Sometimes there were people who took away all of his other choices. Did he have a right to take their lives?" I sighed. "He didn't know. I don't know. But there was a need."

"He couldn't allow them to hurt innocent people," I continued, "and sometimes the only way to stop them was to ... stop them. It was a last resort, only taken during desperate circumstances. It always made him very sad, when he could find no other solution... because someone had stubbornly refused to be saved."

"Did he -" Nate began, and then he paused, looking down again. After a moment he asked, "Were there many?"

"Five," I answered quietly. "He tried not to feel too guilty, often reminding himself that the ones he destroyed had deliberately chosen destruction. In each of those cases, all other possibilities had been tried and had failed. Eventually, we moved to this remote place. He hoped that here, there would be less need."

Nate nodded, without looking up. "I understand," he said. There was a deep regret in his voice. It resembled my father's grief, when he spoke of those he couldn't save.

Shyla said, "This false 'Vash the Stampede' may be trying to make such a need." Her voice sounded sad, too. "I hope they can stop him without it, though."

"I also hope they catch that imposter," I said fervently, squeezing his hand. "Someone who hurts others just for money, he should be captured and his real name known."

My son looked up briefly to flash his sad, gentle smile at us. Then he hung his head again. We changed the subject, since it troubled him so much.

After we had parted to our separate rooms for the night, the memory of Nate's face during that discussion haunted me. So I went to check on him, before changing into my nightgown.

I found his door slightly open, and I could see him sitting on the edge of his bed. He had taken off his shoes and socks, and unbuttoned his shirt. His hands covered his face, and his elbows rested on his knees. His shoulders shook.

I tapped on his door, and went in. He didn't look up. His sleeve cuffs were damp.

I sat beside him, on his right, and put my arm around his shoulders. I gently pulled his head to my own shoulder, and held him while he cried. His tears were accompanied by such heartbroken sobs that my own tears also flowed freely.

It was well past the middle of the night when he cried himself to sleep, and I gently laid him down. I stayed on the stool, holding his natural hand and stroking his hair until his sobbing stopped. By then, the first faint rays of predawn light could be seen in the sky.

Many years of habitually rising at the same hour prevented me from oversleeping this morning, though I was weary from a night without rest.

Nate is worth any number of sleepless nights. I will stay up with him again, any time he needs me. Yet my sleepless night did make rising this morning more difficult than usual. When a body is seventy-five... well, ok, nearly seventy-six... mornings are less friendly than when one is younger.

I joined Shyla in the kitchen, as usual, and gave her a "good morning" hug.

A moment later, as I was mixing up some muffin batter, I felt his hands move around my waist from behind and become a hug. I felt him rest his forehead on my shoulder, and heard his very soft whisper saying, "Thank you."

I leaned my head against his, and hugged his hands. "You let me know if you need me again," I said gently. "Whatever it is, you shouldn't have to face it alone. Not anymore, not when there are people here who love you."

"Thank you," he said again. Then he released me, and went to hug Shyla also.

I guessed Shyla had slept as little as he had. As soon as Nate left the room to go eat before the customers came in, I asked her.

"I felt you go to him," she said. "I knew that he needed you more than he needed me, last night. Thank you for taking care of him."

"Why would it make any difference," I asked, "that he would need me more than he needs you?" I couldn't even begin to imagine what reason could make any difference.

"Because he's exactly like me, mother," she said softly, "except that he's older than I am, and he's been hurt badly by people like you. I don't know how many times; perhaps as many as his scars. Right now, he really needs someone like you to love him."

"Like you?" I asked. I hadn't told her anything, not yet, except how special she is to me.

"The plant lady told me," she said. "She calls him 'red brother' and me 'little sister.' Somehow, he and I are more like her than anybody else."

I was stunned. The thought that he might be... it had never entered my mind. At first, it seemed impossible. But if Shyla could happen, then others could, too. The idea slowly soaked into my thinking, and little by little, I realized that it could explain a few things.

"I never told you where I found you," I said softly. "Thankfully, I didn't tell anyone else about you, not at first. You seemed too good to be true, too wonderful to be real. I treasured you, and kept you close and hidden. I feared you were only a dream, and that I would wake to find myself without you again... or that you would be taken from me."

Shyla hugged me, resting her head on my shoulder. I didn't need her special perceptiveness to know that she was curious to learn more as she waited in my arms.

"You grew so quickly," I said. "You were walking in less than three months, and talking too. That happened far too fast for a normal child. That's why I found reasons for you and I to stay home and out of sight, until you looked like a girl in her late teens. The trouble with Knives let me claim you were a relative's orphaned daughter come to me."

She squeezed me again, and said softly, "Thank you, mother."

"I loved you from the instant I first saw you," I told her. "Knowing you has been the best five years of my life. I've tried to take good care of you. I hope you can forgive my mistakes. I've never been a mother before, so I'm still learning how to do it right."

"I don't remember many mistakes," she said. I could hear a smile in her voice. "I mostly remember that I knew you loved me. That means more to me than anything else."

"I will always love you," I told her. "I've grown to love him, too."

"Maybe that will finally help him to heal," she said. "He's been hurting for a long time."

I hugged Shyla again. "I hope so," I said. "If you ever need me for anything, and I do mean anything at all - please, come to me. No one should have to suffer through any pain or difficulty alone, especially not when there's someone else who loves them."

"I will," she promised. "Thankfully, I've never needed to cry like that."

"Part of me hopes that you never will," I said, "but alas, in life, sorrows will come."

Shyla and I hugged again, and then continued with our day.

In the months since Nate has come, I have gradually learned to know his face as well as I know Shyla's. I know the curves of their brows. I know the shapes of their noses. I know every movement of their mouths, from closed and at rest to the widest yawn.

I know how their eyes sparkle with joy, and how they look when troubled or thoughtful. I know every mood, every expression that either of those dear faces is likely to make. I know their faces better than I know my own, for they are as precious to me as life itself.

Because of this, when the new "wanted" posters came today, I recognized the one advertising the price on his head. The old poster had faded so badly, and lost so much detail, that I hadn't recognized the picture. The new one left no doubt in my mind.

Suddenly last night's conversation about "Vash the Stampede" held new meaning. _"It wouldn't be the first time that some one had borrowed that name..."_ he'd said.

No wonder he's shy around others, and wears his hair long so that it hides his face! He has good reason to want to avoid notice, poor dear soul.

Now I understand why someone using that name, to do harm, would cause him so much distress. This also explained why he had wanted to be known by a new name.

I knew that he was innocent of the recent robbery and deaths, for those happened far away and he has been with me every day for nearly a year.

When I'd seen a silver flash in his hand while he exercised some mornings, I'd thought it might be a weapon. Now I knew what it was, and why he worked so hard to stay fit. He has to stay sharp, in case anyone comes after him. I believe he would protect Shyla or myself if needed, too.

Some people might feel uncomfortable, learning that a former gunman lived in their house. I felt safer, knowing this gentle soul could defend us or himself if needed.

This must be why he sometimes reminds me so much of my father. He probably learned weapons to defend, not attack. It's unfortunate that he somehow landed on the wrong side of the law, for he'd make an excellent sheriff.

If the steamer robber was not the first imposter - and he would know - then maybe most of the crimes of which he stands accused were actually committed by others. That makes far more sense to me than the idea that my gentle Nate would ever intentionally harm anyone innocent.

I tried to think of what I could do... suddenly, I was inspired. I offered to put up the "wanted" posters, while the Sheriff and deputies ate the lunch I had brought for them. They agreed to permit me this, and thanked me. So ...I put up all of the other posters. The two with Nate's face I carefully folded flat. I hid them in my apron pocket.

I took them home, and I have put them where they are unlikely to be found. With his dear face on them, I could not bring myself to destroy them. But I would not let either of those accusing posters be displayed, faded or new.

I will continue tending the wanted posters every time they come in, from now on, for as long as I possibly can. I will remove only the ones with his face on them.

I will not allow anyone to take away my sweet, gentle son.


	7. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Eighteen years after Shyla and Naomi rescued a man from near-death in the desert...

...in the early morning light, most of the townsfolk stood nearby as the priest spoke over Naomi's freshly-covered grave.

Shyla stood beside her brother, holding his right hand. She had always preferred his natural arm to the artificial one, and today she desperately needed to feel his strength.

The pair stood over Naomi's grave, weeping softly, holding hands, and looking like two lost children. The townsfolk offered their condolences, lingered, and then they finally wandered away to continue their own lives.

When the last of the townsfolk had drifted away, the man threw himself across the grave and began sobbing loudly. Shyla dropped to her knees, laid her left hand on his back, and then bowed over with her own weeping, resting her head upon her brother's shoulder.

Thus they stayed through all the long hours of the day, weeping until the suns set and spread their multicolored glory over the skies.

After their initial surge of grief was spent, their weeping had slowly grown quieter. At last, as the sky grew dark, he moved. She sat back on her heels, and he did the same.

He pulled a seed from his pocket, and tenderly planted it at the center of Naomi's grave. Shyla guessed that it was another apple-tree seed. He had planted several apple trees around the town over the years.

He'd taught the children to tend those trees every week, saying they shouldn't eat what they'd not helped to tend. Some of them were grown, and still tending the apple trees.

When done planting, he stretched his right arm around Shyla's shoulders in a comforting gesture. She leaned her head against his shoulder and placed her left arm around his back. They had often sat thus, during the past month, as Naomi had lain in her bed fading away from them. It hurt to lose her, and each took comfort from the other's presence.

"Some time ago, I promised Naomi that I would take you somewhere safe if anything ever happened to her," he said softly. "I know of a place where you should be safe."

Shyla was so surprised that she could think of nothing to say. She turned her head to look up into his face. Then, almost impatiently, she brushed back his abundant black hair and tucked it behind his ear so that she could see his face in the moonlight.

"I'm not as sure about me being there," he continued thoughtfully, staring forward as though looking at something other than the night sky, "but they are good people and they would welcome you for my sake... until they learned to love you for your own sake."

"You can learn things there that you would never learn here," he added. "This village is somewhat behind in recovered lost technology. That won't be a problem where I'm taking you. The people there are very knowledgeable, and will gladly help you learn."

"I don't want to be parted from you!" Shyla clung to him. "Please, don't send me away!"

"I'm leaving, too," he said. "We should both leave, soon, no matter what else happens. If we stay much longer, someone will notice that we haven't aged. At the very least, that will make them uncomfortable. Bad things can happen when normal humans get uncomfortable. I don't want any of those bad things to happen to you, Shyla. I want to protect you, just like Naomi did."

She relaxed a little, but kept both arms around him. So many changes, coming so close together, were unsettling. He was her anchor, the one stable presence in her life while all else whirled about her in confusion.

She almost asked him what sorts of bad things could happen, but then she remembered his scars and kept silent.

"I'm sorry," he said, reaching up to stroke her hair as gently as Naomi might have done, "that I did not talk with you about this sooner. I kept hoping that she would recover, even though she was 92 years old." He sighed. "I really don't want to leave this place either. I guess that's why I didn't want to talk about it."

As always, she could easily follow his reasoning as soon as he explained what he was thinking. She understood the need to avoid trouble. Again, she wondered if he and Naomi had protected her too well. If they had, she couldn't be angry with them for loving her. But it would make her life more challenging, while learning how to look after herself.

Shyla remembered how some of the village boys, as they grew older, had abused her beloved brother. They would shout insults like "wimp" and "coward," and sometimes even worse things. Sometimes they threw stones at him. They lost respect for him, perhaps because he always let them win wrestling matches when they were young.

He would only lower his head, and slowly walk away from them. He never fought back, and never had a harsh word for anyone - not even for those who were cruel to him.

She and Naomi had wanted to scold the boys, but he had asked them not to do that. "They just need time to grow kinder," he always said. "We must be patient. If we set a good example, there is hope that they will learn."

Shyla considered her brother as she held him and rested her head against his shoulder. Her 22nd birthday would not come until later this year. She knew he was both older and wiser than she.

Naomi had once told her, "He's very wise, as might be expected from someone who's older than I am. Regardless of his age, he's still my adopted son. That makes him your brother, as long as I live. We all love each other, and that is more important than anything else." Shyla never learned how Naomi knew his approximate age. All that Nate would ever tell her, when she asked him, was that he was older than he looked.

She knew that she had many things to learn. It would be good to go where she could learn those things that she didn't know. Yet it was still very difficult to leave the only home she'd ever known, especially with so little warning. "Must we travel far?"

"Yes, it will be very far," he said, with his usual direct honesty.

Shyla did not send him her thoughts, since she did not want to distract him. She hoped to learn more, and would ask by speaking when she had a good enough question.

"I wish we could ride the sand-steamers," he continued. "But if any other Independent chanced to be riding the steamer we got onto, we'd be detected. It's better that we go alone, and quickly. It will be quieter and safer that way."

Suddenly their annual week-long camping trip took on a new meaning. How else had he and Naomi protected her, without her even realizing it?

"So that's why you sold the café," she said a few moments later, continuing to ponder everything he'd told her. "It was to keep your promise to Naomi. I had wondered, since it seemed like such a strange thing to do."

"Yes," he said simply. He waited patiently while she chose another question to ask.

"You have been to that place before, then, enough to be sure of the people?" She felt awkward asking, but she was very curious. How had he chosen a new home for her, when he'd not left this village for eighteen years?

"It is a place that I would go to in years past," he said. "It has been my home, which I would visit when I could avoid pursuit. I had no other, for most of my life, until I came here and met you and Naomi."

There was an exception, she could feel it. Another place he had called home, and wanted to go to... but felt he dared not.

His home... that notion intrigued her. He rarely spoke of his life before they found him, and then mostly with brief vague references. What did he mean by "when he could avoid pursuit?" She didn't understand his statement, but it did remind her of something.

"I found these in the back of Naomi's drawer of keepsakes," she said. "They were under some artwork I made when I was very young." She pulled several carefully folded "wanted" notices from her pocket. "Do you have any idea why she would take these down from the Sheriff's office, and then preserve them so carefully?"

He looked at the pictures, and his chin trembled. Fresh tears filled his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. He gently disengaged her arms and moved in front of her. He pulled his shoulder-length hair up over his head, holding it with his hands to somewhat match the hairstyle in the picture, and then he made the same exaggerated smile shown there.

She gasped in surprise. "So... your real name is... Vash?" she asked, stunned. She'd always known that Nate, the name Naomi had given him, was not his real name. But this was so unexpected! She'd heard of the legendary gunman, through numerous conflicting rumors. It had never occurred to her that he might be living in the same house with her.

"Yes," he said, releasing his hair and slowly moving beside her again. "I never realized that she knew. She was protecting me, too. I had wondered how I ought to tell you, but not yet found the right words." He extended his arm, both an offer and a question. With more light, she would be able to see that same question in his highly expressive eyes.

She knew him well enough to know that he would quietly accept the pain of her rejection without complaint, if that was her choice. He would accept it just the same way as he quietly accepted the insults and thrown stones from the village boys who went wrong.

But if she rejected him, it would hurt him far worse than anything those boys ever did.

Shyla had a thousand questions. But she could ask none. She knew that he was kind, gentle and caring. Now she knew which rumors about Vash were most likely to be true.

"You're still you," she said softly. "It doesn't matter what name you are called." With those words, she settled against his right side with her arms around him, as before.

She felt the vast depth of his relief. He draped his arm around her shoulders again, and squeezed her gently in a sideways hug. "You're sure?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, nodding. Then she remembered several different conversations over the years. "Wait!" She said, and felt him grow tense again. "Every time the subject of 'Vash the Stampede' came up, you always said you'd heard that he was dead!"

"I _did_ hear that, on the radio," he said, relaxing. Somehow, he sounded far too innocent as he spoke those words.

She responded by tickling him, and calling him a stinker. He laughed and defended himself poorly, allowing her to get the better of him as he often did with the village's children. After a brief tussle, the two settled beside each other just holding hands and looking at the stars over Naomi's grave.

"We should leave before daybreak," he said. "I've already told several of the town folk that we would leave after Naomi passed on, so it shouldn't come as too much of a surprise... if they paid attention."

That was a valid concern. He was silly and clumsy around strangers, though calmly competent and quietly efficient at home. His gentle ways were oft misunderstood. Many of the townsfolk ignored him entirely, from failing to adequately perceive his worth.

"Is there anyone here that you wish to say goodbye to?" he asked. "We won't be coming back, at least not during a normal adult human's lifetime. Some of the children may still be around, but by then they're likely to have forgotten us completely."

Shyla thought for a few minutes, and then said, "We kept to ourselves so much of the time that I don't have any close friends. I suppose there are a few regular customers at the café to bid farewell, but I can write letters to them and to the children. Even with writing letters, I think that I can still finish packing before dawn."

She considered a short while longer, and then concluded, "I think the only one that I really want to say farewell to, in person, is the lady in the plant."

He smiled and nodded, gently squeezing her hand. "Let's go say farewell to her, then, before we pack and leave to begin our new lives."

They stood, and paused with bowed heads at the graveside, each saying a final fond farewell to Naomi. Then they joined hands again, and quietly walked away into the night.

...

...

_Continued in "Vash's Long Road to Home."_


End file.
